Le Vie de Mordred

by jessewrites

Arthurian Legend: The story Mordred ap Arthur, and the comedy of errors that led to him being marked traitor and coward. Because history depends entirely on the view of who writes it down.

5. Of the Death of King Arthur

Title: Le Vie de Mordred

Author: Jesse

Rating: PG-13

Warning: violence

Disclaimer: not mine, no money made

Summary: The story Mordred ap Arthur, and the comedy of errors that led to him being marked traitor and coward. Because history depends entirely on the view of who writes it down.

Of the Death of King Arthur and Mordred His Son

Scarce weeks later, the messenger came. Mordred was in the study, as he always was, lately.

A page entered at a run. "My lady's fainted!" he cried. "In the Great Hall."

Mordred was on his feet before the boy could finish, and running for the Great Hall with only a hastily muttered, "Thanks."

Dagonet was kneeling beside the Queen, who was on the floor weeping.

Mordred crossed to her, touching her shoulder. "My lady," he murmured.

"Mordred," she sobbed, and flung her arms around his neck, wailing softly into his collar.

Mordred held her, murmuring soothingly until she stopped shaking so badly. "Tell me?" he prompted gently.

Dagonet, white faced and trembling, held out a parchment. "This just came, Sire."

Mordred, one arm still around the shaking Queen, glanced at the letter. He caught the words 'condolences' and 'slain,' took in the shaking Queen and the pale knight, and knew what had happened. He collapsed out of his kneel, sitting gracelessly, eyes closed. "God," he whispered hoarsely, tears on his cheeks. "No." He wanted to scream, wanted to wail and cry and sob. His father was dead and Mordred could not even mourn. He had to take care of Camelot.

For one broken moment, Mordred pressed his face into Guinevere's hair and let the tears come, hot and quick, then he forced himself away and upright. He let Gwen's ladies take charge of her, escort her to her chambers, and looked at Dagonet. "Call the knights still at court to the Table Room in three hours' time," he ordered, "And send a page for Stefan." Stefan was the head of Camelot's messenger corps.

"Aye Sire," Dagonet whispered.

As he left, Mordred wiped his eyes on his sleeve and raised his chin, ignoring the ache in his chest. Bastard or not, he was Arthur's son and heir, and he would do his father proud. There was no other option.

"Mordred," Gwen's voice stopped him a few corridors from the Table Room.

"Gwen," he said softly, dropping all honourifics.

"I can't stay here," she told him. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her hands were trembling.

Mordred nodded. He understood. He would not want to stay either, except he had to, to carry on Arthur's legacy. "Where will you go?"

"The tower," Gwen answered. "My ladies are going as well. We leave in the morning."

"Send if you need anything," Mordred said fiercely, voice low. "Anything."

"I will," she promised. Gwen touched his cheek. "You look so much like him," she murmured, and her eyes filled again. She turned away. "Thank you," she whispered over her shoulder, unable to show him her tears, and then she was gone.

Mordred stood still a moment, then forced his feet to keep moving. In the Table Room, Mordred looked over the curious knights, not even half of their usual number. Instead of sitting in their own seats, they had clustered around his chair. Mordred bit his tongue and crossed to them, taking his own seat. "I'm sorry to have called you from your duties so suddenly," he said, struggling to keep his voice even. "But ill news has come from Banwick."

Immediately, everyone was still.

"My father is dead," Mordred forced himself to say, and if his voice wavered, no one would fault him for it. "God rest his soul."

"How?" Constantine, the son of Cador, the King of Cornwall, Arthur's cousin, whispered.

"An arrow in the eye," Mordred answered. For Constantine, who had lost kin as well as liege, he added, "It was instant."

Constantine nodded his thanks.

"Messengers have already been sent to the Lords," he told them. "And the Queen leaves in the morning for the Tower. She'll not stay any longer."

"Sire," Dagonet said softly. "Have you decided on a date for the coronation?"

Mordred bowed his head. "Nay."

"If I may, lord?" Brunor offered gently, "You've enough to do with ruling. Let us organise the coronation. Three days hence?"

There were murmured affirmations from the others and Mordred could have wept in gratitude. "I could not thank you enough," Mordred answered gruffly.

"Let us take care of it, Sire," Dagonet said firmly.

Mordred nodded, too grateful to speak.

Constantine stood and started giving orders. Dagonet and Brunor took the other knights out, already talking of plans. Constantine touched Mordred's shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Mordred looked at the other man. "What choice do I have?" he asked. "Except to be alright?"

Constantine gripped his shoulder. "Come, my lord. I know you have duties you could share with me. Let me be to you are you were to your father."

Mordred nodded and followed the older knight back to the study. His study, now, his mind reminded him, and he grit his teeth against his grief.

Constantine took the seat across the desk from him and started sorting through pieces of parchment.

They worked in silence for a time, then Constantine said softly, "Sire?"

Mordred raised his head and only when Constantine offered him a handkerchief did he realise he was crying. "I'm sorry," he choked, but once loosed, he could not check back his grief any longer.

Constantine wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "There's no shame in grief, my lord," he murmured, holding Mordred tightly. "There's no reason to apologise."

Mordred shook in the older knight's arms. He wanted to scream with the unfairness of it. How could he be expected to fill Arthur's shoes? How could he be half the king his father had been?

Constantine held Mordred until the young man had cried himself out, and then gently sent him to bed. Mordred went docilely, exhausted with grief and duty, soothed by the murmured, "Things will look better in the morning."

It had been a week since the coronation, quite probably the worst week in Mordred's life. He dealt with all those who were not sure if Arthur's successor would deal with them as fairly as Arthur had. He struggled through constant audiences, listened to complaints, and moderated quarrels. And he did all that while working through his own near-crippling grief.

His first thought when the messenger came in was that it would be a welcome distraction. Then he wondered what else Fate could do to spite him.

"My Lady Guinevere sends a request for aid, Sire," the messenger said politely.

Mordred barely resisted the urge to hit his head on the desk. "Keep going," he prompted.

"A great host of lawless rogues and layabouts have besieged the Tower. She sent me for aid before they cut all connection, and bid me tell you they have supplies within for the next fortnight."

Mordred nodded. "My thanks. Idris!"

One of the pages stuck his head in. "Yes milord?"

"Get this man settled in a room, please, and show him to the kitchen if he's hungry."

"Aye milord," Idris said, bowing and beckoning the man to follow him.

Mordred rested his head on the desk for a moment and then got up. "Constantine," he called as he walked into the Great Hall.

"Milord?"

"Marshall the soldiers and tell everyone to arm up. We ride for the Tower as soon as we are ready."

"Anyone to stay, milord?" Constantine asked.

Mordred shook his head. "Can't spare them. The Queen's in trouble."

"Aye sire."

Mordred nodded and headed for the armoury, pausing along the way only to send a page for the head servant and housekeeper. He started arming himself.

"You know," Dagonet said as he came in. "You have pages for that, Sire."

Mordred flashed him a slight grin. "Aye, I do. But I can do it myself, so why shouldn't I?"

Dagonet inclined his head and begun his own preparation.

When Mordred stepped into the courtyard, a hostler waited with his horse and Aristance and the housekeeper waited side-by-side for his orders.

"Sire?" Aristance asked.

Mordred nodded his thanks, taking his reigns. "Aristance, I trust you and Enide can care for Camelot while the knights and soldiers are away?"

"Of course my lord," Aristance said gravely. The old head servant truthfully, though few knew it, had been a knight under Uther, and this would not be the first time he had been left regent while the king and his knights rode out.

"We'll do our best, Sire," Enide, the housekeeper, added.

Mordred nodded and mounted his horse. "Dagonet," he called. "Wait here for the rest of the knights and soldiers to prepare themselves, then ride after us."

"Aye my lord," Dagonet called.

Mordred looked at Constantine, riding up beside him, and at the lines of soldiers armed and ready in the green beyond the gates. "Let's ride," he ordered, heeling his charger into a lope.

Mordred buried his face in his hands, ignoring the mud and blood smearing from his dirty hands to his similarly dirty face. "How many, Constantine?"

Constantine touched Mordred's shoulder as he sat beside him. "Not too bad, Sire. And they lost far more than we."

It had been three days, three gruelling days of battle and parleys. On the first day the Tower's defences had broken and the rogues had gotten in, though an piece of parchment tied to an arrow told them on the second day that Gwen and her ladies had retreated to the upper floors and were pouring boiling water on anyone who tried to mount the stairs. With Mordred's forces on the outside, no hostages, and all manner of housewares being used as weapons against them from above (one man had fallen out a stair window with a chamber pot on his head), the brigands were weakening, but days of battle wearied everyone. "Any word form Gwen?"

Constantine shook his head. "Though we did hear a rather masculine scream from up there, a bit ago in a lull, so I'd guess her Majesty is holding her own."

Mordred smirked slightly. Gwen was quite a woman. Then he sobered. "I worry about how much food they have. And how much wood, to keep boiling water. And how much water," Mordred added as an afterthought.

Constantine shook his head. "There can't be that many of them left, milord. They've called for a parley—I sent Dagonet. If they don't surrender I'll be surprised."

Mordred smiled briefly, in relief and gratitude. "Thanks."

Constantine tilted his head in acknowledgement. "Thank me by washing up, Sire. You look a sight."

Mordred had just rinsed the grime off when another knight hurried up. "Sire," he gasped.

"What is it, Dinadan?"

"An army, sire," he gasped. He had come at a run. "Approaching from the southeast."

Mordred beckoned Constantine after him. "Show us," he ordered, following the knight to the edge of the camp.

Lit by the setting sun on a hill across from Mordred's camp was indeed an army. Mordred's eyes counted foot soldiers about even with his own forces, though it looked as though the other camp had more knights. He could not make out the banner. "Constantine," he said. "Get your horse and see if they're friend or foe. Let their leader know that if he wishes it, I'll parley in the morning."

"As you say, Sire," Constantine affirmed, and turned to get his horse.

Mordred remained on the edge of camp, watching. He wished he could see the banner. He hoped, desperately, that it was Gawain, home from Banwick, but the knot in his gut told him it was probably one of Arthur's old foes, hoping to take Camelot in the weakness of a new king.

Constantine's figure reached the edge of the camp and there was activity while people came and went from the knight's presence. Finally, Constantine turned away and rode towards camp again. Almost there, he veered to come directly to Mordred.

"Sire," he said, bowing slightly in the saddle. "I did not speak to their leader; apparently his general is injured and he's with him, but it was agreed that you and he should meet between the fields an hour past dawn in the morning."

Mordred nodded. "Well done."

"Sire, I don't like it."

Mordred looked at him.

"They referred to their leader as 'king' and I know of no king who is your ally who would ride here with a force such as that."

Mordred nodded slowly. "I had hoped it was my brother," he said quietly.

"Me too, sire," Constantine agreed sadly.

"Put your horse away," Mordred said. "And get some rest. You'll accompany me in the morning."

"Of course," Constantine said, as though surprised it need to be said.

Mordred smiled and watched him go, thankful to have such a man beside him. Then he turned back to his study of the opposite camp.

Early in the morning servants had set a tent up for the parley in the open ground, and Mordred stood uneasily in it. He was in full armour, but bore no shield and no weapon but the sword sheathed at his waist. Constantine was beside him, similarly attired and armed. They had left their horses at camp, and were all too aware of the tenseness in the air behind them as their men waited for news.

Two men ducked into the tent, one moving slowly and partly supported by the other. They too, wore armour and swords, but bore no shield and no pole arm. Their helmets, like Mordred's and Constantine's, were on their hips, not their heads.

Mordred felt his knees wobble as they straightened. There was no way.

"By Heaven," Constantine whispered.

"Father?" Mordred choked.

"Mordred," Arthur said softly, his face blank.

"God," Mordred choked, stepping forward and hugging Arthur tightly.

Arthur stiffened momentarily.

Mordred immediately stepped back, unable to completely suppress the hurt.

"What's going on?" Arthur demanded.

"I thought you were dead," Mordred managed.

Arthur's whole face changed, softening into sorrow and love, and he dragged Mordred into another hug. "I'm sorry," he murmured into Mordred's ear.

For a moment, Mordred let himself cling to Arthur, and then released his father. "What did you think?"

Arthur glanced at Gawain, who looked pale but seemed steady. "Gawain was injured in a joust with Lance, and we pulled back a bit to let him heal up. While we were waiting, a messenger came, saying you'd told everyone I was dead, taken the throne, and tried to marry Gwen. That she'd locked herself in the Tower to escape you."

Mordred felt another stab of hurt. "You believed that?" He looked between them.

"I could hardly," Gawain said. "But why should a messenger lie?"

"He claimed to be from Gwen," Arthur said.

"If that's true, she's the best actress I've ever seen. She fainted when we got the message of your death. She went to the Tower because Camelot had too many memories."

"And what are you doing here?" Arthur asked.

"Brigands," Mordred answered. "Besieged her. They surrendered yesterday evening."

Arthur nodded, looking at Gawain. "Lance is a few days behind us. When he heard there was trouble in Camelot, he immediately offered his service again. I couldn't turn him down, not so evenly matched as we would have been, were we to actually fight."

"That's good. Perhaps we can get this all straightened out at once. We thought you must have been one of the Northern Kings, come to attack while we were weakened."

"And we thought you were a traitor," Gawain answered. "Now we four know the truth. Time to tell everybody else."

Mordred looked at Arthur. "Why lie?" he asked softly.

"A question for another day, son," Arthur answered, voice just as low. "For now, we should keep the war from staring."

"Right," Mordred said, shaking himself. He followed Constantine out, Arthur beside him, Gawain taking up the rear.

"By Heaven," Constantine swore, leaping to one side as a giant snake lunged at him.

"Mother," Mordred realised with a stab of horror.

"Morgause," Arthur hissed in the same breath.

Constantine drew his sword to kill the snake.

There was a roar from both sides and Arthur swore.

Mordred and Arthur exchanged one, long, horrified look before both ran for their armies, trying to halt the charge started by the flash of steel. And in the chaos, the snake slithered away into the grass.

Mordred stood alone amid the fallen. It was nearing evening now, and he ached to look around to see just how far out of control the situation had spun. His armies had retreated in disarray as the afternoon progressed, and Mordred could not really blame them. Full of the righteousness of fighting a traitor, Arthur's forces had fought determinedly.

Arthur, to his credit, had managed to keep his men from following Mordred's forces in rout.

Mordred bowed his head. There was only one way things could end now.

"Mordred!"

"Father," Mordred called softly.

Arthur crossed to him, face tense. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

Mordred raised his head. "What?"

Arthur shook his head. "Gawain."

Mordred clenched his eyes shut. He could not afford to cry. Not then. "God rest him," he managed hoarsely.

Arthur nodded, seeming to be blinking back his own tears, but it was hard for Mordred to tell through the watering of his own eyes.

"This is a mess," Mordred said.

"I know." Arthur shook his head, despairingly. "I can't see a way out of this."

Mordred smiled sadly. "I can."

"Mordred?"

"The only way this story can end as a triumph for Camelot is for the villain to be defeated."

"There's not one," Arthur argued, seeing where Mordred was going and not liking it.

"There's a hero and a villain in every story, father," Mordred said softly. "Ours is just a little bit wrong. No one ever said the story has to be true. But the story is all the matters. History is written by the victor. And the hero has to win."

"Mordred, no."

Mordred shook his head. "There's no other choice. Camelot has to go on. Chivalry has to go on. And this war, this stupid, senseless killing has to be justified."

Arthur shook his head desperately. "I can't. Mordred, don't ask this of me."

"There's nothing else. And it has to be you." Mordred drew his sword.

Arthur stepped back, drawing his own in alarm. "Mordred!"

"There's no choice! If I'm the loser, history will make you the hero and Camelot lives on." Mordred slashed at Arthur, trying to make him fight back.

Arthur blocked. "Mordred, I can't."

They made several passes, Mordred attacking and Arthur parrying and blocking. A hissing drew both their attention.

It was the snake, head up, poised to strike Arthur. Mordred did the only thing he could think of to save his King. He slammed his boot down on the snake's tail, which was just within his range.

Instead of striking Arthur, it whipped around, fangs sinking into Mordred's calf. Mordred beheaded the thing, already feeling the rush of blood to his head from the venom. "Oh God," he whispered, reeling.

"Mordred!"

Mordred turned his eyes upward, meeting Arthur's gaze. "Don't make me die like this," he pleaded softly.

Arthur closed his eyes. "God help me," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"Me too," Mordred said, raising his sword so it would look like a fight to anyone watching. But he overestimated his strength, and as Arthur's sword broke through his chest and blackness swam around his eyes, his own sword connected with something, his arms too weak to pull the blow. But he could not recall what or why this was a problem. He felt a brief bout of panic that he could not remember, and then there was nothing, not even forgetfulness.